


I'm right here Mom

by DestielsDestiny



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 12x03, Character Study, Episode Related, Episode Tag, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Memory Related, Past Child Abuse, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 12:05:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8401048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestielsDestiny/pseuds/DestielsDestiny
Summary: Mary Winchester broke her oldest son’s heart when he was four years old. Turns out, some things never change. Fortunately, angels are watching over him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Cause 12x03 broke my heart.

Dean tells Sam once that all he really remembered was Mom’s smile. 

They don’t talk about Mary much, not as a general rule. Growing up, it’s often like the fire stole the name Mary Winchester off the earth as much as it stole her body. John treats the topic the same way he treats broken beer bottles and black eyes on toddlers. Like it doesn’t exist. 

And even after Dad is gone as well, that habit just sort of sticks. Dean is nothing if not a good soldier, no matter what Sam says. He learned his lessons well. 

Trouble with that is, he does remember it. All of it. 

He remembers Mom’s smile, yes. But he also remembers her pie, remembers her singing Hey Jude, remembers her laugh, remembers her favourite perfume, remembers her favourite beetles’ song, the name of her favourite book, the ingredients to her favourite soup. 

He remembers the flames, the smell of burning flesh, the agonized grief in John’s eyes. He remembers what it looked like to watch his father lose the love of his life. 

He remembers the kiss mom seared into his forehead, that last night, as she tucked him in for what would be the last time. 

He remembers mom. Most of all, he remembers what it was like to know she loved him, loved him and Sammy, more than anything else in the universe. 

He remembers what it was like to have a mom. 

\--

Dean is nine years old the day he lets a Shtriga almost suck the life-force out of his little brother. He never forgets it, never gets over the feeling of failure that sinks into his soul, branded into a scar across his heart by his father’s accusing eyes, gentle hands desperately caressing Sammy’s sleep curls like his son is the most precious thing in the universe. 

Dean doesn’t disagree about that, will never disagree with that. For them, for their little ragtag family of survivors, Sammy will always be the most important thing in the universe. 

It doesn’t stop the ice from forming in his chest every time John reminds him of that mistake, every time he repeats over and over down the years, look out for your little brother Dean. He’s important. He matters. 

It’s not that Dean disagrees. It’s just that he never quite stops hearing the echo of “you were supposed to be watching him!”, never quite stops seeing his father’s eyes change into something dark and ugly as he glares at Dean across a motel room bed that might as well be as wide as the Grand Canyon. 

It’s just that dad never quite looked as him the same way after that. So it’s not that Dean disagrees with his father, about any of it. 

But three decades later, when freaking Chuck the Almighty looks him in the eye and calls the whole thing “complicated”, complete with a neat little bow on top, Dean can’t quite stop the little bit of anger that rises in his throat. Even if he does stop the words that are fuelled by that anger from ever seeing the light of day. 

It’s just that he isn’t quite sure that “complicated” does justice to growing up with the knowledge that your father’s love is as conditional as your mother’s was unconditional. 

\--

Dean never gave much thought to what might happen when they found God. Not because he didn’t believe Cas would find him, in fact, before the Garden, before Joshua, before motel rooms in the middle of nowhere becoming the place God finally convinced Dean Winchester than the universe genuinely doesn’t give a fucking shit, he never doubted for a second that Cas would find God. He’s freaking Castiel for fuck’s sake. 

He just never much expected God to find them. 

Dean doesn’t remember if Mary Winchester had had anything to say in particular on the whole God thing. He’s not even sure at this point if the whole “angels are watching over you” thing was a result of time travelling douches, or something she actually believed in. 

He never thought he would get a chance to ask her. 

Until God does find them, miracles on earth do happen, and suddenly his mother is right in from of him, just the way he remembers her. 

Right up until a fist connects with his face, and suddenly reality reasserts itself. 

\--

“John was a great father.” It’s almost all Dean can do not to throw up. Two decades of adulthood and more than a few brushes with humans more twisted than most of the things they hunt make if very, very hard for him to shrug off the bruises of his childhood as much as he did when they were still painted across his skin, fresh and vibrant and agonizing. 

Dean learned how to grin from those bruises. Smile through that, and you can fake your way through anything. 

Dean remembers everything about his mother. But she’s always been just that. A memory. A precious, loved, cherished one. But still just a memory. 

Memories are funny things. You can’t touch them, can’t be hugged by them. They can’t tuck you into bed at night. 

But they can’t break your heart either. 

Dean has spent the last few days wondering how he got this lucky, how something this good happened to them. 

And then that pesky thing called reality skirts back in, because while this might be Mary Winchester standing in from of him talking about John Winchester like he was an amazing, upstanding man who loved his kids. Like he never watched wife burn to death on the ceiling of their baby’s bedroom. 

Like he never coped with becoming a widower by turning their four year old into his personal punching bag. 

Suddenly, Dean just really, really wants to find God again, and punch the fucker’s lights out. 

And try really, really hard not to hug him and beg him to never let go. 

\--

Dean remembered a lot more about his mom than he ever told Sam. He remembers what her pie was like, her favourite brand of ice-cream, what kind of flowers John bought for their anniversary every year. 

Mostly, he remembered that she loved him, more than anything else in the universe. That she loved him and Sammy. 

Reality is a bitch sometimes. Because as cold and lonely as memories can be, they aren’t real. 

They don’t have the power to break your heart. 

They don’t have the power to walk away on you. 

They don’t have the power to look your little brother in the eye and say I love you. 

They don’t have the power to glance over their shoulder at you with large, sad eyes, eyes you see every morning in the mirror, have seen in the mirror everyday since you were nine years old and could barely hold a shotgun steady. 

They don’t have the power to say I love you both like an afterthought. Like a goodbye. 

They don’t have the power to walk out on your own little miracle. 

They don’t have the power to make you question whether they ever really loved you as much as you always remember they did. 

\--

Dean doesn’t remember when he started his tradition of drinking alone behind the kitchen counter. He suspects it was right around the time they finally got a permanent kitchen. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there before the flap of a coat heralds the arrival of the guy who just got the title of “only person who hasn’t voluntarily walked out of Dean’s life” by default. Mostly because when Cas leaves, he usually doesn’t walk. He flaps. 

A body slides down the metal freezer door, shoulder bumping against Dean’s as long fingers firmly pry the beer bottle out of his slightly shaking hand. The distinctive slirpy sound of lips pulling at warm glass should sound wrong, but Dean’s had nearly eight years to get over the fact that Cas becoming more human doesn’t mean he has to become any less Cas. 

“I’m sorry your mother left.” Cas’ voice still sounds reassuringly like broken glass dragged across sandpaper. A giggle bubbles up Dean’s throat. 

He used to wonder what his mother would think of Cas. He used to hope she’d like him. He used to think she might just love him, because he loves Dean. 

He never expected that she wouldn’t stick around long enough to care either way. 

“Dean.” It’s not a question. It’s not a demand either. It’s just there. It’s just Cas. 

“Mom used to say angels were watching over me Cas. Did I ever tell you that?” It comes out as more of a sob that Dean intended. Fingers twitch slightly on the bottle neck. 

Cas’ head cants up towards the kitchen light, his neck rolling slightly against the counter, and for just a second, Dean is back in a hospital bed, more battered than he’s ever felt, nobody between him and oblivion but an angel of the lord in a damn’s trench coat. 

Sometimes, it feels like that never quite left that hospital room. 

The head cants back. This time, a trench coat clad arm follows it, looping casually around Dean’s shoulder. Not pulling, not gripping. Just there. 

“I’ll watch over you.” The beer bottle is slowly gaining a spider web of cracks across the neck. 

Dean doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. 

They sit there for a long time. 

\--

A long time ago, Mary Winchester told her baby boy that angels were watching over him. 

She wasn’t wrong.


End file.
